Contact
by Tijuana Pirate
Summary: VinTifa story. Epilogue. 'Vincent smiled slightly and Tifa turned to look at him, her long brown her falling carelessly over her back and caressing the white robe that was showing just a bit of her shoulder. Gods, he was a lucky man.'
1. Contact pt 1

**Author's notes**: A few weeks ago, I had the great pleasure of seeing Metric in concert. I'd never seen them before but, well, let's just say that they left an impression. Of course, since I'm a bit too much of a writer at heart, when they played their song 'Calculation Theme', I automatically thought of Vincent and Tifa. If those two were ever to dance, I imagine that they would dance to that song. All of the italicized lines in this story are lyrics from that song. I'd encourage you to find it somewhere.

* * *

Contact

_I'm sick, you're tired, let's dance_

We spin around slowly. My cheek is resting against your collarbone. It breaks all the rules between us. This contract is… sinful. There's something softly sinful in the way that we are spinning.

It hurts, being here with you like this. Our feet make soft shuffling noises as we move, like there's old paper crinkling underfoot. I feel old; I feel weathered and used. I think that you're the only person who could really understand that.

My eyes are open and starring as we turn. It's not… intimate. There's no soft pitter-patter in my heart. My head isn't racing. There's something… more profound about being here with you like this. Those illusions, they were for children and innocents and I don't believe that I can qualify for either of those anymore. But then again neither can you, can you?

Dancing. We're dancing.

_Break to love make lust I know it isn't_

I won't go into all the petty details. It's not very interesting, in any case. You just seem to stay around here. I'm pretty sure that you have your own apartment somewhere. Sometimes I imagine that you go home to it. Most of the times you're stretched out of my couch though, unusually sober face softened on the rare occasions that I catch you sleeping. You still don't sleep very much, Vincent.

It's an unusual symbiosis. I walk into my kitchen and see you with your hair tied back, cutting up vegetables for a salad. I've seen you get flour on your sleeves. You're a quiet sort of person. Some days it makes me feel awkward. There's a… resonance in you. We can go days without speaking to each other. Sometimes you'll be in my home but I won't see you. I'm not sure if I find the knowledge of your presence comforting or not. You're a hard man to understand Vincent.

_I'm sick, you're tired, let's dance_

Maybe in some peculiar fashion we both need each other. Perhaps broken people tend to clump together. Maybe there's something comforting in the fact that I don't need to pretend around you. Nobody can pretend around you Vincent. There's an intensity in your eyes – not always unpleasant, God help me – that just seems to demand the truth. You cut through my illusions and the shameful thing is that I don't even think that you try. You won't let me pretend to be happy. In the beginning, I think that I hated you for it. Now… now I think that it's one of the things I like best about you.

_Cold as numbers but let's dance_

You're quiet and there are more layers to you than I could ever hope to understand. If you've taken off your cloak then you've hidden it away inside of yourself and it's still keeping you awkward and sheltered and protected and safe, Vincent Valentine. You are secure in your pain, in your sins, in the awful knowledge that, yes, this is your life and you will continue living it for many, many years. There's a certain peacefulness in you that comes from the fact that you know and understand your pain. You've lived with it for years. You've cloaked yourself in its shadows for ages. Mine, I'm afraid, is quite new to me. I wish I had your tolerance for it.

_As though it were easy for you to lead me_

There are times when I wonder if you are atoning still. You saved the world for her but it wasn't quite enough, was it? That I can understand. I think I might've saved it for him too but I don't think that he'll ever love me for it. No, don't be silly dear. He'll never love you for it. So, we have that much in common don't we?

That's why I think that you're using me, in this strange symbiotic way. You let me have something to distract myself from the gaping hangnail living inside of my head and in return, what? You get to save another person? Are you saving me Vincent?

Maybe. Maybe we can save each other little by little, day by day. Like that time you made a cake. I don't even know why; I didn't know that you liked chocolate. It's was late, very late – we're night owls, we two – and you walked into the living room where I was sitting thinking about… unpleasant things… only to sit in front of me with a platter of chocolate cake. I laughed because I couldn't help it and you acted offended but I swear, I _swear_ that your lips might've quirked.

"Cake mix," you said. Just like that. Cake mix.

Were you tired of me brooding? Were you trying to tell me something? That I couldn't do many things but that some things were still worth enjoying? Little moments, tiny things, minute distractions from the ache that seems far too constant for me now?

Or do you just like chocolate cake and were in the mood to share?

You do it all the time; the coffees in the evening that we'll both sit in silence enjoying, the smell of fresh laundry in the mid-afternoon, the unexpected sight of a Vincent looking out the window, possibly at the tree that's flowering across the yard. Who are you Vincent Valentine? And why is that you can distract me so easily, so calmly, and likely so unintentionally from all of the things that I should be feeling? Why is it that you can take this little bundle of emotion that I've become and wrap me up in this empty numbness with which you enshroud yourself?

I've gotten so good at almost not caring. There are times when it can last for hours, this emptiness. I live in a state of blank oblivion. I don't feel anything. I'm not sad, not happy. I'm not anything.

I'm a ghost, just like you.

_I could be passive gracefully_

We're both the ghosts of the people that we once were. If I catch you from the corner of my eye, sometimes I can imagine a younger – infinitely younger – man standing in your shoes. I wonder if you still sometimes catch the sight of a young determined woman too. I don't see her around here too much anymore. She went away somewhere, I believe. I'm just the little bits that she left behind.

Somehow though, you keep me from total melancholy. That's your gift to me. I wonder if you realize that you're giving it away. I'm numb but not entirely lost. It's like the ocean, I think. You keep me floating somewhere in the middle of the water. The surface is high above me but, somehow, I haven't sunk to the bottom yet. It's a darkness but not a complete one. I think that it's the most that you can give me.

It's a kind of life, this pseudo-life that I endure and indulge in with you. Like you, I can go days without seeing the sun. It's an ugly thing, the half-light that we clothe ourselves in but I doubt that we'd survive well in the sun.

_Half the horizon's gone for a skyline of numbers_  
_Half the horizon's gone we're working the numbers 'till I'm sick_

All of it changes with contact. I don't know exactly when it happens. I suppose that it's only natural, two adults living together. It makes sense that they might accidentally brush each other in passing. I don't know when it first happened but then somehow it didn't stop happening. Tricky fingers that touch when they are passing utensils in the kitchen, palms that smooth wrinkles on shoulders, toes that might brush when two people are sitting at opposite ends of a couch too small for both of them… When did I become comfortable with you Vincent?

But there is a moment that I remember very clearly beyond all the confusing maze of instances that I have stolen with you. It was a nightmare. There are many reasons why we don't sleep very much, you and I.

_Sleep don't pacify us until  
Daybreak sky lights up the grid we live in_

Maybe it was worse than normal, maybe I cried out, I don't remember. I don't remember the dream but when I woke up, frightened and lost, you were there. There was a warm hand on mine – a kindness that you had never, ever once extended to me – and I clutched it like a small and broken child. I touched my feverish face to those cold fingertips and I sobbed against that tiny cool bit of warmth. My reaction caught you off guard and you stiffened but I couldn't stop crying. There were many reasons why I needed to cry. I had never cried; not once since he left me. It was like my toes had brushed against the bottom of the ocean and in my screaming despair you had reached out to give me the only thing you had: contact.

It wasn't pretty. There is nothing beautiful about a woman crying. I sobbed against your outstretched hand and in a slow, creaking kind of way, you bent down so that you were kneeling beside my bed and gently placed you metallic claw against my back. It was almost an embrace.

I don't know what I am to you. I don't know what you were thinking when you touched me. I have always secretly thought that you might have a weakness for women crying. When I watch your eyes, sometimes there's an old ache only reawakened by another person's tears. I think that you let too many people cry in your other life. Maybe you're not really comforting me. Maybe you're a younger man comforting a woman who's younger and far more beautiful than I am. Maybe you're remembering words that you'd rather forget. Maybe you've felt your feet touch bottom a few too many times to let anyone sink that low alone. I don't know but I'm not thinking; I just hurt so much that I clutch you and cry.

You never say anything all night long.

_Dizzy when we talk so fast  
Fields of numbers streaming past _

The next morning, I walk out of my room carefully. I feel like a burn victim with too-sensitive skin. My eyes squint at the sunlight sneaking in from the windows but I resist the urge to shut the curtains. I smell pancakes from the kitchen and so I walk forward carefully to investigate.

You're standing by the stove, shaking a skillet slightly. The smell of pancakes is intoxicating. You look over your shoulder at me. You don't smile but there is a kind of warmth in your eyes, I think.

"Pancakes," you say.

I laugh. Pancakes. Of course.

_I wish we were farmers, I wish we knew how  
To grow sweet potatoes and milk cows _

Sometimes I have these wild little thoughts, what if questions that dance in front of my eyes like colourful butterflies. What if you'd never known a woman named Lucrecia? What if my father hadn't died in the Reactor? What if she'd never gone and done the noble thing? Would we still be here, you and I? Would he be here instead? Would she? Would I have faded along the way somewhere or maybe we could've painted ourselves in a bit more sunlight and colour? What if we were generally happy together? What if I could make you happy?

I tend to stop my questions after that.

_I_ _wish we were lovers, but it's for the best_

We don't touch as much anymore, not after that night. I've gone and made things awkward for us, I think. I think that you were shocked and surprised by your reaction. I know I was. Maybe you're lamenting another sin heaped upon your too eager shoulders. I don't think that I'll ever understand you. I wish I did though. I wish for many things.

_Tonight your ghost will ask my ghost,  
Where is the love?_

I think that I might be depressed and it frightens me a little. I look at myself in the mirror and my eyes look pale and shallow. I don't think that I'm getting enough sun. I'm not eating as much as I used to. Maybe I'm waiting for another chocolate cake but you haven't baked in a while.

I'm avoiding sleeping once again tonight. I think that the clock is creeping close to three in the morning. I decide to sneak out to our house's tiny backyard where I go to sit and watch the stars sometimes. There's something coolly pleasant about their light. You can look at them as if they're stuck behind thick glass or maybe meters and meters of water. They're deceptive, they're distant, they're cool but they are still beautiful. They're still shining.

I'm not even really surprised when I find you sitting out there. It's one of the many things you do. I think that I could categorize all of them by now. We know each other rather well now, don't we Vincent? But not in the ways that count, not really.

"You'll catch a chill," you murmur without looking back at me. I smile a little.

"It's alright," I say quietly. "I have a blanket."

You nod and I pause a moment before taking a seat beside you. We're far apart enough so that there's no risk of contact.

We watch the stars in silence for a long time. Sometimes I feel like I can talk to you without using any words, Vincent. You have a way of listening that goes way past absorbing words. I feel like you're always drinking me in, distilling me inside yourself. Maybe that's why I'm not surprised to hear myself speaking to you. I feel like you already know.

"It looked a lot like this, the night he promised to be my hero."

You nod slowly and I don't need to say anything else. A quiet descends for a moment. It should be awkward but it isn't. I'm just waiting.

"I told her something very similar, many years ago."

The words gravitate towards me and there's something heavy lodged in my chest. I swallow the lump in my throat. You sigh very softly. It's the first time I've seen you look so… defeated.

"We're always a disappointment to the ones we love."

Always Vincent?

_Tonight your ghost will ask my ghost,  
Who here is in line for a raise? _

I fall asleep out there with you, my head leaning lightly against your shoulder. Another infraction, please add it to my list.

With weary footsteps, you gather me up in your arms and carry me inside. In a half-awake feverish kind of state I realize this but I decide to let myself be weak just for one night.

You lay me down in bed and pull the covers up around me. I want to say thank you but I'm sleeping. You pause a moment by my bedside before walking away.

I think that I dream about a younger man that night, looking up at the stars by a well. He's not the man that I knew but he's not the man that I know either. He's somewhere in the middle but I'm still the same.

_Tonight your ghost will ask my ghost,  
Where is the love? _

I wake up only a few hours later. The sun is just barely starting to creep in through the windows. It's diffusing through the curtains, giving everything a softly surreal yellow glow. I've never been one to lie in bed and so I wander out of my room only half aware that I'm looking for you.

There's a quiet noise coming from the living room. A melody. I stand in the doorway, taking in the scene. You're sitting on our couch and there's a woman singing over the radio. I can't quite make out the words that she's singing because you have the sound turned down so low. It's more of a sense of music.

I smile a very small smile to myself. It seems that you may never stop surprising me. I've never seen you sit and listen to music before.

I walk in quietly and I know that you realize I'm here but you don't turn to acknowledge me. It's alright; I wasn't expecting it.

I walk up right in front of you. You still don't – can't – look at me. I feel like I should be nervous but I'm still feeling numb. You've taught me oh so well, Vincent.

I break all the rules. I reach out to touch your hand. This is something different. It's not an accident and it's not comfort. It's something different, something else.

This time you look up at me. There's puzzlement in your eyes. I feel a little dizzy looking at you. I tug on your hand very slightly, getting you to stand very slowly in front of me. You're wary of me. Am I that frightening, Vincent? I used to be afraid of you, years and years ago.

I lead you out into the middle of the room. I don't know why I'm doing this but I'm not questioning. You taught me that too, Vincent. All your twisted little lessons, I've taken them to heart.

With a deliberate slowness, I close the gap between us. You hesitate and I feel your question. I smile very softly, looking down at the floor. I feel an odd pleasure in confusing you.

Do you still remember how to dance Vincent?

You move sluggishly, like you're dreaming. That sharp claw – does it remember when it was just a hand? – rests against my hip with a feathery lightness. I move in towards you and loosen my fingers from yours. Your good hand trails up to find my other hip and with a silent sigh I touch my cheek to your collarbone. We move slowly, like molasses, and start a slow dance, little more than a shuffle. We spin aimlessly in our one little circle as the unknown woman sings softly to us. My eyes are wide and open and unseeing. I can't even imagine your face. You've always been a blank to me.

_Tonight your ghost will ask my ghost,  
Who put these bodies between us?_

I imagine that once you were just a man and I was just a woman, long before we became all tangled and snarled together. I imagine that once we might've lived differently, that we might've felt more than this. I imagine that maybe in some other life that I've never had the joy of living I might've felt loved, happiness. I would love to hear you laugh, just once.

Maybe we'll never really reach the surface. I feel like I could drown here for ages with you. Maybe it's not love, maybe we can't love, but in some oddly twisted way, we can dance.

The light that trickles into our apartment is diluted and faded but we've always looked better by starlight anyways.

* * *


	2. Contact pt 2

**Another's Notes**: I don't believe that I've ever once set out to try and write a multi-chapter fic. They tend to just happen to me. Contact was never supposed to have a continuation… but it does. In fact, I have quite a few chapters written up that I'll be posting here bit by bit.

I have to say thank you to everyone who reviewed my first chapter. I don't often tackle Vincent stories and so I always appreciate the input. More than that though, I'm very, very glad that you're enjoying this story. I hope that I won't let you down with this new chapter.

I'd like to extend my thanks to Cendrillo and Sabriel41. Their constructive comments were very much appreciated.

Okay, on with the show.

* * *

Contact (pt 2)

Your lips taste like dried paper.

It's a strange observation. You have soft lips but… they aren't smooth. They're a tiny bit rough. There's nothing… soft or beautiful or wonderful in this. I think that every day you kill off another one of my illusions but I can't hate you for it.

I should feel something… I know that I should. It's just a kiss. A tiny, infinitely small, soft kiss. A kiss is a greeting; it doesn't have to mean anything.

I… I can't believe that I'm doing this. I don't think that you can either. It's hardly even a kiss, just a flick of lips that touch each other briefly. It's hardly even a kiss… just two lips being pressed against it's other, like there's a pane of glass between us. Will we always be so separate, Vincent?

There is one illusion that is still true; time does slow down. For this brief, aching moment, time stops for both of us. There is this instant of clarity that I feel with you. For this tiny moment, we can step outside of each other and, yes, we can touch while you are standing in my kitchen. It's late – it's always late here – but I feel like I'll never have to see the morning again.

I know that time has stopped because you're still here. I'm just waiting, like the moment before an exhalation. This is … this is more than your comfort and more than a dance and more than all the many terrible things that we have done together. This may just go beyond contact. This… could pick us up and shatter us all over again. I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't think that I _can_ think anymore. I've spent too long learning from you, _coping_ with you – and we are so at coping, you and I – that I've stopped thinking. I never should have done this. I never…

My eyes flutter closed just for a second, not because this is romantic or intimate, but because I've never been able to look at the face of my shame. I don't want to open my eyes again because then I'll have to _see _you and I don't think that either of us can handle that.

I could've been kissing glass. You don't react. Oh, you freeze, you tense, but that's an animal instinct. Someone is in your space, Vincent Valentine. You're an animal being stalked by a terrible predator. Though, considering your experience with women, perhaps that's not such a terrible allusion. That's right. I'm…

You don't want this, do you Vincent? This isn't what you bargained for. I'm sorry. I know that I shouldn't push you the way I do. I'm just so…

But you already know, don't know? I don't know why I can't just… _be_… the way I used to. I never should've reached for this. I'm sorry.

With the realization comes the exhalation. Loss. Oh, yes, I remember this feeling very well. For a tiny moment, my eyes are open and I'm looking up at your face. There's… there's something written there but gods above me I could never hope to read it.

Then, something surprising, something that neither one of us expects; two fingers come up and touch the base of my jaw line. Your fingers are feathery light. I can't tell if it's an invitation or a weak defence but your hand is touching my face. Never intimate – this isn't romance – but it's there. It's contact.

Then we really are breathing again and time is finding its pace between us. You move away from me – I'm not the only one who's hiding – and you turn towards the kitchen window. There's nothing out there tonight Vincent; it's over-cast and there are no stars.

"Please, don't do that again," is all you say.

Your back is turned to me; I can't even see the profile of your face. Your voice is cold, distant. I swallow a lump in my throat. I shouldn't have…

I'm sorry.

I leave you alone in the kitchen.

* * *

If there's ever been a night that I should cry, I know that it should be this one. I haven't cried since the night you almost held me. It's something that I can't bring myself to do. I can't cry for _him_ – though I did cry for her, years and years ago – and it seems that I can't cry for either of us anymore. I wish that I could. I honestly wish that I could. Maybe it would break me out of this desolation. I don't, I can't… 

There's nothing here. I'm just… we're trapped here, we two, aren't we. Have we done it to ourselves? Did we do it to ourselves? Maybe it wasn't Cloud – oh, don't say his name, don't don't – and maybe it wasn't Aeris or Lucrecia or Meteor or anything else. Maybe we… maybe we just can't be anything else. Maybe this is what we've always been.

I don't… I don't want this to be my reality. I really wish that I could…

I roll over in my bed and bury my face in my pillow. I may not cry tonight but I certainly won't sleep either.

* * *

There's a surreal feeling to a morning comes without you sleeping the night before. You feel like time has been stolen from you. The morning dawns clear and fresh but you still feel like it's midnight. There _shouldn't_ be light outside because it still feels like night time to you. It's a dirty, dreary thing. 

I sit in my bed for a long time, debating. I want to go about my daily routine. I want to go shower and get clean and sip some coffee in the kitchen. Routines are a saving grace for both of us. I shower in the morning and you shower in the evening; it keeps us from awkwardness. I know that I should leave my room. I know that I should. But…

But I'm afraid that this will be like another morning where I woke up to an empty house and the cold reality that, yes, I had done this to myself. So I sit here, in my bedroom, and I don't come out.

* * *

My stomach hurts. It's the first thing that I'm really conscious of. I've drifted off to sleep and when I wake up my stomach is protesting very loudly. I'm hungry, painfully so. 

I look around my bedroom and note that there's no light filtering in from my window. It's evening again. What woke me?

I listen for a moment, startled to wakefulness. There's… something amiss.

My eyes turn to my door and I glare at it in the dark. There's… something. A presence. Someone is standing right outside my door.

I couldn't tell you how I know; my silent stalker doesn't make a sound. I can still feel him out there though; somebody listening to me listening to them. It's that prickly feeling you get when someone is watching you in a large crowd. You just _know_.

And just as suddenly it's gone. I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding and slowly lower myself back down to my pillow. I lie there with my eyes open for a moment or two. A realization slowly creeps up on me.

The shadow by my door. That suits you Vincent.

* * *

I must've fallen asleep again because when I wake up my stomach is screaming at me in protest. I choke up and then gag on the feeling. That reflex deepens and then I'm falling out of my bed, rushing to my dresser. Gods! 

Dry heaving. I should've known better. Gods, I can be so stupid! I…

Oh, the feeling is aching and terrible. All of my insides are cramping up together. My fingers are shaking over my tiny waste paper basket. I feel a sweat break out of my back.

You're just suddenly there. Vincent, stop protecting me. Help me or…

I can't force the words out of my mouth though. Nothing but my sickly saliva escapes there. I moan a tiny bit and your good hand starts to rub my back sympathetically. Your claw deftly pulls my hair out away from my face. Why do you take such good care of me Vincent? Put my pieces back together, put me on a shelf. Why do you…

A particularly painful cramp flies up and I let out a tiny little shocked yell. I can almost imagine your brow knitting together. There's nothing you can do though; I did this to myself.

* * *

Eventually, my stomach stops punishing me for my indiscretions. I slump forward and, yes, once again those protective arms of yours are lifting me up. You carry me back to my bed but I feel too empty and ill to thank you or protest. You pull my blankets up over me and pause a moment by my bedside. You still refuse to speak to me. After a moment's reflection, you walk over and pick up my sorry little waste paper basket and leave it beside my bed as well. You disappear and leave me alone in my room. My troubled body forces me back to sleep.

* * *

It seems like an instant between the time you leave me and the time you wake me again. You flick on the light on my beside table and I squint at you in the sudden light. You're standing by my bed and you have… Oh. 

You hold the bowl of soup in front of me, a serious look on your face. It's hardly even soup; I think it might just be chicken broth.

My stomach cramps looking at it and for a moment I think I'm going to be sick again. You draw back from me and give me a moment. When I finally turn my guilty eyes to you there's no pity in your look. I think that you're... no, I'm sure of it. You're annoyed with me Vincent. It was fairly irresponsible, going two days without food. You have every right to be annoyed. Maybe another Tifa would've been insulted by this treatment but I'm just…

Gods, when did I become so used to shame?

I look away from you and I can feel your countenance change. Oh, Vincent…

"Tifa… please."

I swallow. Without looking I murmur,

"Thank you, Vincent."

* * *

Night time again and I'm eating my soup. I can hear you down the hall. You're being deliberately noisy because I can never hear you this clearly. Ah, there again. You just opened a cupboard. I heard that. 

I believe you Vincent. You don't have to tell me you're here. I believe you.

My stomach threatens me a few times as I'm eating, forcing me to stop and breathe slowly before I can continue on again. You pause every so often when you're cleaning in the kitchen as well. Your hearing never ceases to amaze me. That amongst other things.

Soup is as good an excuse as any. I'll focus on this.

Thank you Vincent.

* * *


	3. Contact pt 3

**Author's notes**: I just want to thank you all again for your very lovely reviews. They really do make my day, you know. I'm glad that you're all enjoying this.

As a note, there are still many chapters in this. This chapter might sound like an ending but it's not. Far from it, actually. Enjoy.

* * *

Contact (pt 3)

There are so many different kinds of conversations, so many. I wish I knew... I wish I knew what to say to you. What do you do when you've transgressed so badly against someone? Gods, what can you _do_?

There are three things. First, you can fight – oh we used to _fight_, he and I – and say more words that you can never take back.

Second, you can ignore the entire situation and pretend that it never happened. It's only a little bit better than fighting, that one.

Third… you can really _talk_ about something. You can be honest and let all the tiny pieces of yourself slip out and be exposed in the full light of day. It's a terrifying thing to contemplate. It means that you aren't allowed to hide your little indiscretions anymore. You can't pretend. Sometimes words have that kind of an impact. Sometimes a conversation can change a life, can change lives. But we've never been that brave, have we Vincent? No, we've never been that brave.

So we don't talk about my cardinal sin, my indiscretion. We don't talk about the fact that I brushed my lips against yours when you were standing in my – our – my kitchen and that, just for an instant, you placed your fingers against my jaw – why, I may never know. No, we don't talk about that.

Do we talk? Do we speak? Sometimes. Sometimes we'll talk about small things. You're a quiet man Vincent and I find your silence… comforting. I feel like you know me and, yes, some part of me admits that I know you too. In some ways.

I have no idea how you feel about any of this but I do know many things. I know that you have a sense of humour, diluted through the ages maybe but still shockingly, remarkably there. I know it because sometimes, just sometimes, there'll be the tinniest of smiles pushing against the corners of your mouth, only a little bit more than a smirk. I love that smile; it always makes me laugh.

There is something… no, many things… underneath that surface of yours. I feel like I could spend hours just _sitting _with you. I feel like we are always talking, you are I. We are always telling each other little things. There are times when I see you sitting alone in the living room, sipping coffee quietly first thing in the morning. There are moments when the light is filtering in quiet and diluted from our windows and I feel like I _know_ you. There is a breadth of understanding that sometimes echoes between us. I don't need to tell you how I feel because you _know_ and I know you do and we don't really need to talk about it. After all, you've done this all before, haven't you Vincent? You've been here, right here, where I'm standing. You've… you've…

It's not… Oh gods, it shouldn't be a sin to love someone. It shouldn't.

Vincent, I'm not brave enough for this. I can't have this conversation with you. I don't want to talk about it. But I do. Oh gods, yes I do.

This… I can't do this. I can't be here with you. I can't have these moments with you anymore. I can't stand in the kitchen and watch you from the corner of my eye. I can't sit outside at night and look at the stars with you. I can't dance with you in our living room. I can't do all of these things – these sins, these painful little sins – if, in the end…

I don't know what you think of me. I wish I knew. I wish I could _read_ you. Maybe if I knew I could be honest. Maybe honesty is a foreign concept to both of us but I wish that I could be _honest_. I don't know who I am anymore. I've spent so long defining myself by someone else that I've forgotten what it's like to just be _Tifa_. You can only give so much of yourself away before there's nothing left. I don't have anything _left_ Vincent. So, please. Please… I can't…

This is just a little too much for me. Please, give me back my mysteries or lose some of your own. I don't want to continue on like this. This life? I can't…

Hate me, lose me, love me, free me, I don't care anymore. I have so many things that I want to _tell _you. I want to sit down with you and talk for hours. I want to break down and cry. I want to scream and throw things and laugh - _really laugh _- until there are tears running down my face and my ribs hurt. I want to be wild and laughing and so damned _alive_ that I can feel every pulse beating in my heart. Can you give that to me? Can you? Do I have the right to ask?

I'm tired of being numb. It's dulling, it's safe, it's quiet and tranquil… but it's not _living_. Oh, Vincent, I _know_ and that's the hard thing. I realize what you are trying to do. I understand your reasons and, really, I appreciate your intentions. Maybe you were afraid for me. It would make sense; I was afraid for myself too, a little. Not suicide… just maybe that I'd fade a little too far. Maybe. I don't know. I try not to think too much about that part of myself…

So I do realize and I appreciate and I thank you but, Vincent, this isn't enough for me. I can't just… _be_ here with you like this. I can't always dance around these… these… _connections_ that spring it between us. I can't always gloss over everything. Maybe you can. Maybe you're stronger than I am... Gods, I wish I could _tell _you all of this!

… the sad thing? I know that I won't talk to you. I'm not even really debating this. This is our reality. I can't… I can't break out of this on my own. Maybe once – will there ever be a day when I _don't_ regret something? – maybe once I could have but I can't manage alone anymore. So, you want to be this way? You want this? Alright; I won't argue, I won't protest. I won't scream and beg and cry the way that I want to. I don't feel enough anymore. I can't. You've… you've taught me too well for that. I won't give in; I'll hold back. I'll…

We won't have this conversation. I'm not strong enough to start it and you, oh you, you're too quiet by nature. We're both too quiet. I don't want to have this conversation because it might change everything between us. Yes, I'm scared. I'm petrified. I don't have too much left to me and I don't want to lose the last little bits that I cling to. I'm sorry, I just can't.

In the end, there are three things that you can do once you've transgressed against someone. You can fight, you can talk – really talk – or…

You can ignore it. You can pretend that it never happened. You can make it a blank in your life. So, Vincent, we will. We'll move on. We'll move along. It never happened.

I don't love you, not really.

* * *


	4. Contact pt 4

**Author's notes**: When my mother was younger, she lived out on a farm in rural New Brunswick. You can get some frightening storms on the East Coast. My grandmother, she used to keep my mother away from the windows in their living room when a storm came. It wasn't as if sitting beside the window would be much more dangerous than sitting away from it… but she told my mother that, all the same. When I was a child, my mother told me the exact same thing. ...Not that that has anything to do with anything. (smile)

Oh, and Vincent's not _really_ talking about the kitten. Not really.

Okay, enough of this cryptic AN. Enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Contact (pt 4)

I know that I shouldn't be worried. This isn't something that two people like us should do for each other. You know; worry about each other.

You are a gods-damned foolish man sometimes Vincent Valentine. I warned you; I'd heard the weather report. A severe thunderstorm warning. You shook your head slightly – _dismissing _me, something that you so rarely do – saying that you had 'things to attend to'. Gods-damned stubborn fool of a man… So, here I am, sitting in the living room by the bay window. I'm tucked up in a blanket – a comfort thing, I imagine - and I'm continuously scanning the street below, looking for some trace of you. Please don't disappoint me.

It's pouring rain outside. It's falling down in buckets. The wind's blowing so strong that the house is moaning faintly and every now and then a lightning flash breaks up the sky, followed by an even more impressive clap of thunder.

When I was younger, I used to love watching storms like this. My mother would scold me – Tifa, don't sit by the window – so I'd sit dutifully in my bed, starring out at the broken sky.

Young Tifa would probably laugh at this one, nervous and sitting alone. Though… perhaps she'd be amazed that I'd grown enough to break the taboo and sit so close to the storm.

The door suddenly swings open and slams against the wall. I jump up, startled, to find you – poor, pathetic thing – dripping in the front entry. I almost launch into the tirade that I've been rehearsing in my head… but the sight of you sopping wet on my doorstep is enough to still my tongue. Shaking my head slightly, I walk over to you and hand you the towel that I've been ringing nervously in my hands for the past hour.

You take it from me, slightly bemused (I think), and thank me quietly. Automatically, you start rubbing it through your hair. I can't help but laugh.

"You're soaked," I comment.

"I realize," you quip.

I can't help but grin.

"You know I did-"

"I know."

"You should've-"

"Perhaps."

A very, very small smile plays at your lips when you hand me back the towel.

"Thank you Tifa," you say simply.

I blush a little and you give me a puzzled look. Never mind Vincent.

" Do you want me to take your coat? You're soaked through."

Suddenly, your eyes widen.

"Coat."

"…what?"

"My coat."

A little frown creases your mouth and you squint as you search around in one of your interior pockets for something. (I love that coat of yours, an old-fashioned black trench-coat. It suits you and reminds me of old detective movies where the hero always works for free.)

Very slowly, you pull something out of your coat pocket. I look up at you, puzzled.

"…Vincent?"

And then I notice what it is.

A kitten. You have a small, shivering, grey kitten cupped in your good hand.

"… a kitten?" I whisper – and I don't know why I'm whispering. The creature just looks so small and weak and scared… I can't bear to bring my voice above a whisper.

The poor thing is in a more pitiful state than you are. It's so small – undersized, I think – and its fur is completely soaked through. You murmur back at me.

"I found it walking home. It was alone in a box in an alley. I think that it had been abandoned there."

My face falls.

"That's so terrible…"

"Here," you say, passing the small shivering creature over to me. Automatically, I cup it in my hands andhold it close to my chest. The poor thing….

I look over at you. You're in the process of hanging up your sopping coat and taking off your soaked boots and socks. Your pants are soaked too but it seems like your shirt's still dry… It was nice of you to hide the kitten in your coat. It must have kept him warm.

"What should we do?" I ask you. It always seems like I'm turning to you for help, doesn't it?

"The kitchen," you say simply and then walk off that way. I follow a few steps behind.

In the kitchen, you pull out a bowl and a few dish towels. Then, from another cupboard you pull out a hot water bottle and let the water run in the sink. I hold the little shivering mass of fur in my hands, watching you work.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"It's undersized and frozen… we have to warm it up."

I look down at the kitten in my hands and then back up to you.

"…him," I say quietly. Then, more clearly, "The kitten, he's a boy. Not an it."

You look over your shoulder at me and pause in your motions.

"Tifa… you should know, it's a very small animal, probably the runt of its litter."

"I know."

"And it's entirely possible that it was too far gone long before I found it."

"… I know."

"So, it would be best if-"

"Vincent," I say quietly, firmly – a surprise, that - but I can't finish my thought. I don't know what else to say.

You're quiet a moment before nodding like I've told you something important. After a pause, you go back to your work. I look down at the kitten cupped in my hands. He's white and grey all mixed together, little patches and stripes. There's a tiny little fleck of white just above his nose.

"Why would someone just abandon you?" I ask the kitten softly.

You walk over to me slowly with his bowl and hot water bottle. I look up at you but I can't read your face. It's neutral, like you're thinking about something. That's okay; I've grown used to this.

"Here," you say softly. I put the little kitten into the bowl and cover him in his makeshift blanket. You move over to the kitchen table and place the hot water bottle under the bowl.

"This should keep it warm," you say.

"Him, Vincent."

You look over at me, a semi-damp black lock of hair sweeping in front of your eyes, and you nod slowly.

"…this should keep… _him_ … warm."

I decide to slink down into the kitchen chair closest to our new guest. I hesitate a moment before using my index finger to rub the little kitten's neck.

"Do you think that he'll be alright?"

You sigh and sit down opposite across the table from me.

"It's hard to say."

"… If we look after him, I think that he'll be alright."

You don't say anything to that.

We sit in silence, my eyes on the small kitten on our kitchen table, your eyes taking in me. You feel … sad, Vincent. I look up at you.

"… Are you alright?"

The question catches you by surprise but then you sigh again.

"… I wonder if perhaps I should not have brought… him … here."

I shake my head.

"No, it was right. He's better off here."

"He might have been alright on his own."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

You're quiet for a while.

"No, perhaps not."

You stand slowly and the chair creaks underneath you.

"I'll go change… I'm dripping on your kitchen floor."

I smile a little at you.

"Go ahead. You'll catch a cold if you don't."

One more small smile from you, a minute bow of your head, and then you're gone. I look at the doorway for a moment or two after you leave before turning my attention back to the little grey kitten. I move my finger across the back of his neck comfortingly. It's just a tiny bit of contact.

"It's alright," I tell him quietly. "We'll look after you."

That's the scene you walk back in on; me, patting a kitten on our kitchen table. You lean against the doorframe in the entryway and watch us from there.

* * *


	5. Contact pt 5

**Author's notes**: This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Tiramisu of Impending Doom. She sent me some absolutely beautiful fanart of Vincent and Tifa in chapter four, which was the spark that inspired me to finally post this chapter. With her permission, I have it set up as a url. If you're curious,click away. Sadly photobucket shrunk it down... but it's gorgeous, all the same. To view the page, add a period at each point where I wrote (dot).

i18(dot)photobucket(dot)com/albums/b119/Tijuanapirate/fanart(dot)gif

Well, enjoy the chapter everyone. And thanks again Tiramisu!

* * *

Contact (pt 5)

Our little house guest has a good friend in you, Vincent.

You teach me how to take care of him. I watch in a sort of childish fascination as you warm milk in a saucer, test it against you arm and then bring it over to the little kitten. When he's too weak to drink from it himself, you tear off a long strip of cloth and twist it tight into a little shoot. Then, you dip that into the milk and, once it's soaked through, you hold it by the kitten's mouth until he licks away all the warm liquid. Then, you repeat the process over and over and over again until the entire saucer is gone.

And you do that at least three times a day.

In the beginning, I was afraid that you'd write him off. He was small - so small – and such a pathetic looking thing… but it seems that when you get it into your head to save a creature you're a stubborn man.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I ask one night, watching you tend to our guest in our kitchen.

"My father was a veterinarian," you murmur, eyes focused on the little creature lying in front of you.

"A veterinarian?"

You nod.

"When I was younger, I would work in his animal hospital. I imagine that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps; set up a practice, work with animals..."

There's a touch of irony in your voice.

"What happened?" I ask, captivated.

A tiny, bitter smile touches your lips.

"He died. I moved to Midgar and everything changed."

I sigh a little and slide into the chair besides yours.

"Midgar has a habit of doing that to people," I murmur.

You make an indistinct noise and narrow your eyes, paying a tad too much attention to the kitten that you're trying to feed. I watch your face for a moment before deciding to let the matter slide. I reach out and rub the little kitchen's neck and he butts my fingers affectionately before turning back to the milk you're offering.

That's enough conversation for today, I think.

* * *

Slowly, he does get better. It happens so gradually that you'd almost miss it if you weren't paying attention. One day, he crawls over to drink from the saucer of milk on his own. On another, you start feeding him small slivers of fish and chicken and he eats them greedily. Then, he starts exploring the tabletop and then, when we start to become afraid that he'll jump off the table on his own and hurt himself, we place his little bowl-bed on the floor and he romps around there happily. 

So, I guess we saved him Vincent.

"You know," I muse one day, watching the kitten hunt dust mites in the corner of our kitchen, "He really deserves a name. We can't just keep on calling him 'kitten'."

You look over from the vegetables that you were chopping.

"A name?"

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear nervously.

"Well… yeah. He kind of does live here now."

A little mysterious smile touches your lip and you turn your face back to your vegetables. A steady chop chop chop starts up in our kitchen.

"Does he?"

I make a face. You're in question mode.

"Yes he does Vincent. Unless you were planning on tossing him back out on the street?"

You turn your face back to me. I think that you're a little bit insulted. I blush.

"… I know that you wouldn't."

You nod once and turn away again. Chop chop chop… I smile, amused, before looking back at the kitten playing in our kitchen corner. So quick to forgive, Vincent Valentine?

"How about…" I drawl, thinking, "No… that's a stupid name… oh!"

I turn back to you, excited.

"How about Dart?"

You pause and look over at me.

"Dart?"

I nod.

"He's small and sleek and silver… like a dart, don't you think?"

You grin a tiny bit before turning back to your vegetables. Chop chop chop…

Dart it is then.

* * *

I love watching you around him. You two… it's funny. What juxtaposition. Vincent, you're just so… _you_ all the time… it's amusing to watch a little fuzz-ball attack your shoelaces. You roll your eyes dramatically and mutter dark things about alleyways and stray dogs as you rescue your boots… but you always smile when you say it, even if you try to hide it. 

One night I walk into the living room and I see you teasing Dart with a little piece of string. I smile and you look up at me. You pause awkwardly in your game and my smile deepens.

I slink in to sit beside you on the couch and you – I'd almost say a touch sheepishly – hand the string over to me. I laugh softly and … well, really, I couldn't tell you why I did it. Maybe it's just because we've been feeling so _natural_ lately. It feels so _right_, being with you.

So, I just slide and stretch out on the couch… with my head resting very contentedly in your lap.

The moment I do so, I snap out of my reverie and realize _where_ I am and _what_ I have done. You freeze too and I'm struck with indecision. What should I do? Should I pull away from you? I don't know…

You aren't breathing. Gods, I know Vincent. Too much… too much bloody contact. I'd almost forgotten in the past few days. Did you feel it too? The way we were… gods, we were almost _normal_, weren't we?

I rotate onto my side, my back facing you. I shiver a little and shut my eyes tight. I can feel it snapping up at me again. I should've known better. Gods how could I…

Fingers rest slowly on my side, in the curve between my hips and my ribs. My eyes open wide. I want to turn back and look at you… but I don't move. I don't even breathe. Vincent, you're…

Time does stop. It does; I can feel it. There's no sound, no movement. All I can feel are your fingers resting against my ribcage. That's all there is in my world - that tiny point of contact.

A sigh - a long drawn out sigh - and I lean in against you. Your fingers twitch against my side and I feel you breathe out too. I swallow and close my eyes.

Let's just pretend that you're just a man and that I'm just a woman and that this - all of this - doesn't really mean anything. Yes, it's possible for us to be here, like this. It's plausible that I may stay up late with you, drinking coffee. It's conceivable that we may dance in our living room. It's _understandable_ that I may kiss you in our kitchen when you're distracted and looking outside the window. It's, it's...

It's a pretty dream, isn't it?

... If you can pretend, so can I. Tonight, I'll believe it.

Thank you Vincent.

* * *


	6. Contact pt 6

Author's notes: Okay, first off I must apologize for being a git. The link that I posted for The Tiramisu of Impending Doom's fanart was sadly the wrong link. Some people asked me about it and I sent them the correct one. If you _haven't_ seen it and are interested go to:

i18(dot)photobucket(dot)com/albums/b119/Tijuana(underscore)pirate/fanart(dot)gif

Thanks again Tiramisu!

* * *

Contact (pt 6)

When I wake up the next morning, there's a sharp, stiff pain in my neck. I groan quietly and reach up to touch the ache there. I guess it's my punishment for sleeping on the couch…

That wakes me up. There's a blanket pulled up over my shoulders… and I'm lying alone on the couch.

_Fingers against my ribcage. Exhalation, a sigh. A long silence._

Oh yes, now I remember.

_o.o.o.o.o._

Have you ever woken up… and felt like something _happened_ during the night and you missed it completely? You wake up and you feel like the world may have ended during the night and you slept through it. You wake up from a dream only to realize that you're still dreaming, that you've always been dreaming, and there's nothing real left in your life… because there was nothing real to begin with.

Only maybe that's the lie and this is the truth. Maybe the lie is that we've always had too much truth in our lives so we decided to hide it with layers and layers of deceit. When did I begin to lie to myself? When Cloud left? When I was sixteen? (He's left me twice. I forget that sometimes but it's true).

When did it start for me? What was the first lie that I told? That I was happy? No, it was further than that.

That I…

Oh yes, there it is.

Tell me, Vincent, who are you lying to? Me? Yourself? Maybe everyone else; I really don't know.

You're in the kitchen – it seems that you're always in the kitchen – but I don't think that that's where you should be. Where did you go last night Vincent? What did you _lose_ last night Vincent?

Shall we lie a little bit more now? Shall we be honest? Shall we…

No, I don't want to have this conversation.

You pause in the kitchen. Yes Vincent; I'm awake. I can't sleep forever.

My stomach sinks… No, I'm sorry. I still can't face it. I'll just…

You walk out of the kitchen. You have… pancakes again Vincent? You stand a little bit away from the couch and I close my eyes.

"…Tifa?"

No, Vincent.

"…mm?"

Concern, I can feel it in your voice but I'm not looking at you.

"… are you well?"

No, Vincent.

"… I think I might be sick."

A lie.

I hear you place the plate down on the coffee table and crouch down beside me. Cool fingers press against my neck.

"… you don't have a fever."

I know, Vincent.

"I'm sorry..." I roll away from you. "I just… don't feel well," I murmur against the back of the couch.

What will you do, Vincent? I can feel your frown.

"Can I… can I get you something?"

A sharp exhalation. It could almost be a laugh.

"No Vincent."

Leave, please. A shiver runs through me.

You're so quiet that I can feel you… like gravity, pulling me in. Oh Vincent, let me _be_, please.

Shiver, shiver, but if I can hold on… just …

I don't want to…

Arms pull me away from my cover. An intake of breath when you see…

No, it's alright Vincent. I'm sorry.

"Tifa… why are you crying?"

Your cruelty breaks me. Stop pretending Vincent. Stop it, please. Please, gods…

Arms pull me in and I am crying, crying like I have never done… I have a reason now. Gods save me, I have a reason. I'm not lying.

See, I felt it. In the night, the world ended but we can't just keep pretending. I don't want to pretend anymore. Tell me the truth, Vincent.

"Tifa… why are you crying?"

You whisper when you hold me. We're both crouching on the floor. The blanket fell with me and it's half covering us. Tell me … tell me…

But I can't say it either so I suppose it's too cruel to ask.

That's why I'm crying Vincent. That's why.

Fingers brush up against my cheeks, brushing the salt away. Tears… they dribble down your fingers. We were built with tears, not born but made. Blood and tears, that's what we dribble into each other… delirious, almost, in the freedom of crying.

"Tifa…"

A hitch in your voice. Does it hurt you, Vincent? Tell me, does it hurt you too? It kills me. I'm dieing, Vincent. Can you see that? Can you _feel_ it?

Foreheads pressed against each other, arms tightening almost compulsively around me… Your chest is heaving… the closest I've seen you to… Fingers that brush up against my hair, they drip salt in my hair.

"Why… Tifa…?"

I moan a tiny bit and shake my head. No, I can't… Vincent…

A secret Vincent. Not a lie but a secret.

Tell me, Vincent. Tell me your sin. I want to be your confessor. I want to confess… sinners, we two. Yes, we are sinners.

"Tifa…"

Pain in your voice, pain so dark that I can feel it. Is this what you've been hiding? We hide in the open, we two. Dance around, pretend to be real – to be _human_ – until a night and a touch and a kiss can prove us to be liars. Tell me, Vincent.

Romance, they lied to me. This isn't romance. You'll never buy me flowers, Vincent. You'll never walk up behind me and squeeze my shoulder first thing in the morning. _Well hello, you_ – like we never expect to wake up together and are constantly surprised that we do. Tell me, Vincent. I can't…

I can't say it but I can still talk.

Lips, coated in salt and tears. I'm crying and you're kissing me… no, this isn't the same. This isn't…

You lean in against me and it _hurts_ Vincent.

A breath and it's like a cry, the noise you make. It _hurts_.

Freedom … no, that's not it. It's not that. It's…

It's like waking up the moment after the world dies. It's like dieing, it's like breathing, it's like coffee first thing in the morning sunshine. Love is like dieing. It's like… like waking up and…

Tears that don't stop falling. Tears that trickle down, making tracks on my face. Your fingers catch them and brush them away. Is that all it is, Vincent? Are you still trying to save me? Are you?

Your hands are shaking… don't stop. It's…

Kiss me and I won't lie to you anymore. Kiss me please and don't lie to me. It feels like dieing, this embrace. I feel like I'll never pull back from it. I'm too… Vincent, people aren't supposed to _feel_ this way. We shouldn't… there should be a separation between joy and pain. They shouldn't be _the same thing_. You blur my lines, my edges. Tell me, Vincent. Tell me what you've been hiding.

Ribs aching because I can't breath. Hyperventilating? Kiss me, Vincent… until the edges go black around me and I'm falling, falling, but if you…

I remember, Vincent. Chaos wings and death and beauty and _they should not be the same thing_.

I don't have anything to cling to. Let me… let me fall free of it. I don't need to be caught; just let me _fall_.

…I died once. In that black light, when I couldn't find _him_… when I screamed and he didn't come. I felt it all press down around me until I couldn't breathe. I felt it… death was accusing me. My sins, all of our sins, they blamed me for them. I was the source of our sin. Petty injustices, crimes since I was a child. They were the weight of my sin. I think that I died.

…but I lived again. The death didn't matter.

My fingers work up into your hair and I drink in what you're trying to give me. I won't be your penance, Vincent. I refuse to be your sin. I refuse.

If you want to live with me, then I will live with you. That's what I've decided. I'm sick of death and dying, Vincent Valentine. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of silence and pain and awkwardness. I want to kiss you first thing in the morning. I want to drink coffee with you on the porch. Gods I want…

I'm selfish, Vincent. I'm selfish and a fool and I don't care if you leave me or not because this is the only way that I want you.

Complicated, we aren't beautiful. Beautiful is clean and we are far from that. I will sin with you, in this. I don't care about the principles. Vincent Valentine, I don't care.

A change of positions again and you press my back against the couch. A moment from now and we might regret this but I don't care. I just want to keep drinking you in Vincent.

"Tifa," my name against my mouth and it's almost worth crying again but I'm done with tears.

An hour, a day from now, I'm not sure what we'll be. I won't regret this though. I refuse to regret this.

I told you, Vincent; it's not a sin to love someone.

* * *


	7. Contact pt 7

**Author's Notes**: Woo hoo, I'm being productive today! I posted this along with pt 2 of my other Vincent story, Sans, which is quite a bit darker than this one... but, shameless pimping aside...

I make two apologies: one, this chapter is short and has a bit of a cliffhanger. Two, I apologize to everyone who ever believed in the whole 'I kiss you and everything is magically better' philosophy. Very few things in life, I think, are that easy.

There are two more chapters after this one: the conclusion and then the epilogue. It certainly has been quite the ride. (smile)

Enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Contact (pt 7)

My head rests against your chest. My arms are wrapped very loosely around your hip and you're supporting my weight with good grace. Your back is against the couch and my side is just barely touching it. Your hand is resting on my hip, your claw very, very lightly on my leg. You still keep me safe and I appreciate it.

You feel tired, Vincent. It can be exhausting, this honesty.

I feel unusually shy… I tuck my face in against your shirt and close my eyes. I feel like I should apologize but I refuse. Your weariness settles on me like a weight. Your thumb rubs against my hip and I almost smile. There's a tiny bit of comfort in that touch; I can feel it. I swallow.

I've never understood the phrase 'and the silence felt heavy' until this very moment. The quiet is pushing down on us. The only thing that I hear is our breathing and we're trying to keep even that quiet. It really is like waking up after dying, isn't it Vincent?

I kiss your neck very, very lightly and then pull away. You look down at me. My cheek rests on your shoulder. No, I still can't read you. I would love to see… _something_ there. I'm waiting for the storybook lines. I'm looking for something in the base of your eyes… but all I see there is old pain and that aching _weariness_ that I felt before. The side of my mouth creeps up. An ironic smile, I never used to know them before I met you.

You hand leaves my hip and touches my cheek. It reminds me of your fingers on my jaw line in the kitchen but the feeling is completely different. There, it was a last resort… Here, it's like the soft light that falls in through our curtain windows first thing in the morning. Diffuse and yellow, it paints the room in subtly different colours.

Should I go first, Vincent?

I nudge my cheek against those fingers and you cup my face. Are you moving on instinct? I am. In this contact, I can be honest. I close my eyes and breathe out.

"Vincent… I love you."

The words fall like raindrops – teardrops – against that quiet morning light. I feel you exhale. Oh, the _ache _in you hurts me Vincent. You look away from me, to nothing. My eyes open up and I stare right ahead.

So that's what it feels like.

A cold falls in, a distance. Because I refused to lie, Vincent? No, that's not it. That's not it, is it? My fingers reach up and touch your cheek. I force you to look at me. Can you see it, Vincent? My eyes are serious. I'm a touch angry. It makes me say things.

"Vincent, you don't have to stay here for me. Because that's the truth. If you don't…"

But it doesn't make me brave, not quite. I don't finish my sentence. I swallow and look away. I'm angry, I'm hurt and you're just… what did you say? Oh yes, I remember.

_We're always a disappointment to the ones we love_.

Were you trying to tell me something then, Vincent? I didn't want to listen. Let me fill in the words for you, Vincent Valentine. Tell me… tell me that some pain is just too much to step back from. Tell me that sometimes when people die they just _die_ and there's no coming back from it. Tell me that you don't love me.

But that would be a lie, wouldn't it, Vincent?

I feel your struggle. Gods, you're a _good_ man, aren't you Vincent? That's… that's cruel. What will you tell me? Will you tell that me you love me? Will you lie to me? Can you _lie_ to me, Vincent?

I turn my face back to you. I wish I could let the anger dribble away but I can't. It's tied up in you and me and the life that broke you. I _hate_ the gods, Vincent. I _hate_ them.

The smile on your lips now is sad. Lost, that's how I feel. Hand on my cheek… oh I could _drown_ in those sad smiles. Sad smiles, ironic laughter, petty pains.

Do you see why I hate the gods?

The sad smile touches my lips too. We weren't made to be normal, you and I. You dip your head down – always repentant, my poor would-be lover – and I lean my forehead in against yours. Thank you… thank you for being honest.

Tomorrow, I'll see you off. It's alright, I forgive you. You're just… so very you, Vincent. I can't help but forgive you. I smile because the ache would swallow me. I smile because I told you that I wouldn't be your sin and I wasn't lying. So, it's okay. I forgive you.

Tomorrow, I'll see you home.

* * *


	8. Contact pt 8

**Author's notes**: I can't quite explain how much trouble I had with this chapter. I wrote three or four drafts of it and none of them worked. Well, actually, the problem was that they _all_ worked but none of them felt particularly _right_. The only thing that I could do was stop and come back later.

This was supposed to be the last chapter in this story. I had a perfectly good epilogue written out. The _problem_ was that none of the drafts felt _right enough_ to be the last chapter in this story. If I'd just been writing this for me, I would've left well enough alone and decided to use the draft that seemed 'most right' to me. Somehow though, this story ended up being one that many people seem to be enjoying (I've snuck my way into something like 7 C2s now, God only knows how) and I couldn't bring myself to leave well enough alone and finish with a chapter that was probably decent if not perfect.

So, here's the chapter that should have been the last chapter and isn't. Apparently, I need to write some more in this.

I curse my muse but am thankful for your patience.

* * *

Contact (pt 8)

Once, there was a point and purpose to my life. I remember it. There was a time before I got so tied up in someone else's life that I was blissfully comfortable in my own.

I can't really blame Cloud for what happened. There's not really anyone to blame. It doesn't make sense, assigning blame for things that happened in the past. I can't really see the point to it.

My _point_ - so much as I have one nowadays - is that I remember what it was like to have my own life and just be _me _for whatever my reasons. You know that there is a simple, guilty, beautiful pleasure in just existing. It's a real talent. It's a hard thing, living. We spend our lives searching for reasons, for meaning but sometimes I think that those are just barriers for us to hide behind. We need those things to make our lives make sense because we always fear what we don't understand. Thus, we paint our lives in false colours, wear our fabricated costumes and delight in the textures. Sometimes, it's enough to survive that way. We can spend years without ever realizing what we're doing. We make up our lives to ignore exactly _what are lives are_ and, more importantly, who _we_ are.

That's why I can't blame Cloud. I did it to myself.

I made myself… I made myself into something that I wasn't _exactly_. The best lies are the ones with a grain of truth in them or so I've always been told. My Tifa was a cunning fabrication, written arounda young girl who was once, I imagine, really _Tifa_. Gods, no wonder Cloud didn't love me – he didn't even _know_ me.

I didn't even know me.

Vincent, you did something for me that I don't think that anyone else could have. I didn't have to _pretend_ around you. If I was broken then, well, apparently Tifa could be broken. It didn't matter. I am ridiculously grateful for that.

Right now, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, cradling an empty cup of coffee in my hands. Dart's sleeping by my feet… it's going to be a grey day outside. It's quiet in the house but occasionally I hear you moving about in your room.

Getting your things.

It _hurts_ Vincent. Gods, it hurts me so damn badly. I promised myself that I wouldn't make it hard on you. It's your choice – did we ever have a choice? Did we really? – and you are free to make it. I can _let you_ _leave me_, Vincent Valentine. I have a choice in that too, don't I?

You told me one night that we always have a choice in everything that we do even if we don't recognize all of our options. Oh, I remember that that had made me so angry. Maybe I just didn't like the idea of being totally responsible for my own actions. People like to blame fate, it's true. Sometimes it's easier to believe that we had no hand in our own mistakes. I had argued against you - some insane logic; I don't remember - and, after a moment, you'd replied:

_Sometimes, even death is a choice_.

And what could I possibly say after that? You would know, wouldn't you Vincent Valentine? Oh, of course you would.

My fists clench on the table. Gods, it's just so damn _unfair_! Even if it's up to me to decide, I refuse to make this choice Vincent. It's just not _right_. I promised that I wouldn't be your penance, that I wouldn't be your sin. Don't you see? I can _let you leave_ because I love you and I don't want to hurt you. If I cry, I'll hurt you. If I argue, I'll hurt you. Gods damn it Vincent, I've never wanted to _hurt_ you.

But I can't help that I love you.

I've never fought so damn hard not to cry in my entire life. I know that you're listening so I can't do it. Maybe even after you've left I won't be able to cry. Maybe I'll always have the feeling that my tears _might_ hurt you somewhere. Maybe I'll never cry again.

Damn you, Vincent Valentine. Gods damn you.

It's starting to rain… I can hear it, very softly, falling against the window… My hand wipes angrily at my eyes.

I didn't sleep at all last night. Neither did you – I can always tell. I laid awake in my bed and you in yours. At some point you graduated from sleeping on my couch to sleeping in my spare bedroom. My semi-permanent resident.

Usually, when we're both awake, we gravitate towards the kitchen or the living room. We don't like being _alone_, we two… except that this time _we're_ the problem and there's no comfort to be had in that.

Damn it Vincent.

So, I laid awake all night long andyou did too. I watched the patterns that the shadows made on my wall and listened to you shift and walk and _not sleep_.

I'm tired and I ache _everywhere_ Vincent. I'm sitting alone in my – no damn it _our_ – kitchen with an empty cup of coffee and I can't quite bring myself to stand up and make myself a new one. There's a kitten sleeping at my foot and he is the _only one_ who is comfortably oblivious to our situation.

I rub at my eyes again. They sting but… but I am _trying_ Vincent. Can't you see that I am _trying_?

Eventually, I hear shuffling feet walking down the hall. My breath catches. I have my back to the kitchen entranceway. You pause there but I don't turn to look at you. Oh Vincent, what can I say? What can you say? We have nothing to say to each other…

But I don't want this to end this way. I don't want this to end in a puddle of anger and pain and regret. Damn it, Vincent, we have a _choice_ in this. Why can't you see it?

You start to walk away from me and I know that you're heading for the door. Everything… everything gets slow. I can hear the rain hitting the window – really falling now – and I can hear my heart… but you are almost soundless as you move away.

I stand up suddenly and my chair scratches along the floor. You stop but I don't turn. My hands rest on the table and I feel the wood underneath my skin.

I sink my head down and close my eyes. I'm… No need to hide it maybe but I still can't look at you. I don't know what to say. I have _nothing to say_. Everything that I've ever wanted to say to you I already have and there's _nothing left for me to say_. It doesn't matter. You're _still_ going to leave me. I promised that I wouldn't hurt you but Vincent can't you see how badly this is hurting _me_? People, we are so gods damned selfish. I break my promise.

I swallow.

"I have lived my whole life…" I say, in a small broken whisper, "not knowing who I am. I've never understood _anything_. I tried to make sense of it one day at a time but it's just too damn much for someone to make sense of."

You don't turn but I know your listening and it's enough for me to keep talking.

"I've never…" I sniff once because I just can't _help it_ Vincent and pause a moment before continuing, "I've never understood anything," I say quietly.

With that, I realize I have nothing left to say.

Silence… it suffocates me. My chest feels like a shaking, shuttering bird trying to be let loose. I shiver.

It's so unexpected… there's a hand on my shoulder. My hands bunch on the table. This is… this is just too cruel Vincent.

You turn me slowly and, yes, I'm standing in your arms. I hide against you and you hold me close. Tears – always tears – they drip down my cheeks. Your hand comes up and tangles in my hair. You lean in and rest your chin against my head. My eyes are wide and starring; it hurts too much to close them.

I shiver and you… you just hold me.

It's … it's wrong Vincent. You can't do this and leave me. That's what makes me cry. Quietly, I cry against you. I'm sorry that I broke my promise.

You brush your lips against my hair and my tears soak into your shirt. Carefully, your hand sneaks up under my chin and, gently, you get me to raise my head and look at you. That self-same hand rests against my cheek. You smile very sadly at me.

"It's not always a question of understanding," you murmur quietly. Your eyes, Vincent… your eyes look so sad and _old_ that I can't look at you. I move down and rest against your chest. A few stray tears leak from my eyes.

"… Then what is it?" I whisper against you.

You lean your cheek against my hair and I shut my eyes. Why is the grass green, papa? What are the stars made of? What does love feel like?

"I don't know," you answer honestly.

You lead me slowly to lean against the wall with you. Then, slowly we slide down until we're both sitting on the ground. I move in close, wrapped up with you. You hold me and let me cry quietly. We rest against the wall together.

Occasionally, you rub your fingers against the back of my neck through my hair. You rest your head against the wall and I stay close to your chest, listening to your heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Vincent?" I ask quietly, after some time.

"… Yes Tifa?"

"Are you… are you going to leave?"

A sigh. A long, soft sigh.

"I don't know."

My breath hitches in my throat and a few more stray tears fall from my eyes. I nod against your chest.

"…Okay."

I fall asleep and you carry me back to bed.

* * *


	9. Contact pt 9

**Author's notes: **Well, this certainly has been a long time coming full-circle. I spent ages trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to say in this chapter. Every time I thought that I had it figured out, I reread my draft and realized that I had it all wrong. Finally, I think that I have it right.

There'll be a short epilogue after this. This time, there shouldn't be much of a delay between posts.

Enjoy.

* * *

Contact (pt 9)

I dream about fireflies.

I have not seen this place in ages… but in my dream nothing has changed. When I was younger, my mother used to tell me stories about the fireflies. In late August, when the days were warm but not _too _warm, they'd come in from the forests outside of town and swarm our tiny village square. My mother would sit outside our home with me in her lap and brush my hair out in long, soft strokes, and tell me stories about the lights I could see dancing in front of my eyes.

I can't remember the stories anymore – fairytales about how fireflies carry wishes and dreams and all the good things in the world – but the stories themselves don't matter. All that I need is the feel of her arms around me and the sound of her voice in my ears.

I used to _love_ this place, Vincent. This was my home in everyway that mattered. In my dream, I'm standing in the empty square of my village and there are no ghosts here besides the green lights of the fireflies that flicker and dance around me.

There had never been a physical different between my home and the one that Shinra rebuilt after the Project. They were almost sadistic in the amount of detail they followed. The old beat up truck, the well, the way the door of the inn creaked on a dry day – everything. The only difference that I can truly remember was the _feeling_ of it – the sickly, terrible, nauseating feeling that something was _terribly wrong_. It nearly overwhelmed me the first time I stepped back onto that cobblestone walk with you and Cloud both beside me.

I have nightmares, sometimes, where that indistinct dread coats everything that is dear to me _now_. I look around my home, my life, my friends and all I can feel is that chocking panic. I could lose myself in that fear.

… but now, looking at these bright flickering lights – all I can see, Vincent, and all I can remember is what this place _was_ to me. Home, in the simplest and deepest of definitions. I know that if I walk to my house and open the door my father and my mother will be sitting at our kitchen table. I could play the piano upstairs and the notes would fall effortlessly. I know these stars – I know these streets. _This_ is the place I loved.

When I wake up again, my eyes are dry.

* * *

I sit in bed listening to the quiet for a moment. There are many kinds of quiet in life and I've heard them all. There's the panicked, desperate sort of quiet that we were all too used to when we traveled; holding our breath and listening desperately, trying to hear what was listening to _us_. 

… There was the quiet when Aeris died – like the world had stopped turning and time stretched and I felt like it would never start again…

I recognize the peaceful ones now. I wake up and my eyes look around my room, the objects muted in their pale shades of grey.

There is a chair that I placed in the left corner of my room, a white wicker one that I never sit in. It doesn't really have a purpose but I needed a place for it and so it found its home in my bedroom. Instinctively, I turn my head to that direction.

I know enough to realize when someone is watching me, Vincent Valentine.

The moon is fat and full from my bedroom window. I'd neglected to close the curtains last night and so the white light falls in. It lies in a sliver across my bed, bisecting my legs.

"Did I wake you?" you ask quietly, your voice feeling both oddly out of place and yet distinctly at home in this darkened room. I smile and I know that you can see it. You have me at a disadvantage, Vincent Valentine.

How far have we come tonight, Vincent? I remember your lips against the top of my head; I remember crying curled up into your shoulder as we sat against the wall together… but here that could've been a thousand years ago. My memory of fireflies mixes oddly well with the white light of the moon.

I wait for you to say – what you need to say.

You lean forward and rest your elbows against your knees, you chin sitting against your interlocked fingers. I wonder vaguely how long you stood outside my room, listening to me breathing. You didn't wake me Vincent but I'm beginning to realize what did.

I mimic your pose and pull my knees up to my chest. My head slips back to rest against my bed's headboard but I keep my eyes on you. You sigh softly and look down at the ground.

"… You asked me a question," you point out to me, your voice sounding earthy in this room full of dust and air. I nod, the back of my head rubbing lightly against the wood of my bed frame.

At night I can feel all of my life stretch out behind me. It feels like an anchor that holds me down – or perhaps ties me back to this life. Without our pasts what are we? Nothing but the shells of what we once were.

I think that I'm starting to understand a little, Vincent.

There is nothing profound or sacred in this room with us tonight, Vincent Valentine. We could leave it all behind us, you know. We could imagine, just for once, that we're two people sitting alone in a sliver of moonlight. That's all we need to be.

Perhaps that's all we are.

Your voice is soft when you finally speak. It reminds me of the empty city that was and is my home.

"…It would not have been the first time that I'd left," you say quietly to me and my chest rises and falls in a half sigh. A part of me is glad for this last little distance between us. It's still a necessary one.

"When I was seventeen years old, my father died. I left Mideel without my mother's permission, deciding to head into the City to look for work. There were many young men who did the same thing at the time. Without my father, we had no way to run the clinic. My mother – like my father – would have preferred if I'd gone to school in Mideel, train to be a veterinarian like him, but I'd never truly had his knack for healing. When he died far too early, he'd left what he could for my mother and I but it wasn't enough to save a practice that couldn't function any longer. We sold the clinic and its land, moved into a smaller house but I'd wanted to protect my mother. There was no work in Mideel – we were right in the middle of a second Post-acquisition recession – and I couldn't support her there. I made my choice and moved to Midgar."

I nod to let you know that I'm still listening.

"In Midgar, those who couldn't afford to live properly had to move down to the slums. They were just starting to gain their infamous reputations in those days." You pause, looking for something to say. "There was no work anywhere and the kind of work that you could find… I doubt that you would've taken the opportunity, Tifa."

The side of my mouth quirks up because you're being naive.

"I lived in the Slums for two years Vincent," I remind you quietly. I feel your small bit of a smile at that.

"Perhaps…"

You trail off for a moment and I wait for you to find your place again. I'm starting to realize that we both need to hear this, just once, come what may.

"… The work always started off innocently enough: 100 gil to run a package, keep an eye on a car... Eventually, if you made the right kind of contacts, you could earn a different kind of job: the kind that would pay double, triple, quadruple the normal fee. Looking back, it seems so strange to realize how quickly I was pulled into it. I would send money back to my mother but she never wrote me; I imagine that she had her suspicions.

My involvement with the Turks was more accidental than anything else. I had been working on a job that, for some reason, Shinra had decided to put an end too. My colleagues were killed but I injured the man who wanted to kill me. I should've died then, perhaps, but another man stopped the first from killing me. I only learnt who he was much later, after I'd been sent down the labs. That was how they indoctrinated the young ones back then: if they lived, they served. That was the ideology."

I sigh again. I'm sorry Vincent – I just can't help it. How many… your story could almost be anybody's, Vincent Valentine. How many lives were lost to that city? Perhaps we'll never know.

"I bought my mother a home on the Upper Plate that she never moved into. I continued to send her cheques that she never responded to. Eventually, one day a cheque was returned to me in the mail. That was how I learnt that my mother had passed away: by proxy. I was twenty-three years old.

After that, I have very little to say for myself. I worked for the Company. We lived and died as a unit. I saw new ones come, serve, and die. There was nothing particularly glorious about it. We did function as a unit though and there was a kind of loyalty there. The years blurred."

"… Until Nibleheim," I say quietly because I know that you're trying to say it.

"Yes," you answer. "Until Nibleheim."

I sigh once and push myself off the back of my bed. My arms rest on my legs and my hair falls down around me. I feel you watching me and I take a deep breath in. There's a line of moonlight crossing my hand, my body displacing the beam. I turn my face sideways to look at you, my hair falling down.

Our second city in common, Vincent. I've never been one to believe in fate but on nights like tonight doesn't it sometimes make you question? Our stories, thirty years apart but each moving to the same theme… or perhaps it had very little to do with either of us in specific. Ours were but a few lives lost to these places.

In the white light, I'm sure that you can see me well enough.

Your eyes flick down and away, watching the floor in front of you. I wait for the silence to end.

"It was meant to be a simple assignment and it was: protect the scientists, their research specimens, and maintain the up-most degree of secrecy. In truth, I had no idea what I was guarding. I found out the details of the project much later…"

You trail off and I almost sigh… this is the point where our lines blur, Vincent Valentine – where your story becomes a little bit my own. Your sigh is almost non-existent behind the white light of the moon.

"… Since my mother had died I'd forgotten what a decent kind of purpose could feel like. Perhaps it was at first the nature of the mission – to protect, not to harm – or because of its duration – I was nearly two years in Nibleheim – but in truth I couldn't say. We were isolated in that small mansion; our lives were constantly butting up against each other. I couldn't help but take notice of her, Tifa: younger than the rest, brilliant, and idealistic. Married first to her work – like her husband – but not beyond… Not beyond kindness, perhaps.

Hojo… they were false accusations, the ones he made. I don't believe… no, I know it. I never truly _loved_ Lucrecia in the way that he supposed. She was…" You shake your head slightly. "It was ridiculous for a Turk to think that way but I admit that I had wanted to protect her: from her work, from the world, from herself as well perhaps. She would confess to me, late at night, the dark things that they were doing in that basement. She would always flinch at the details but become stronger when she'd mention her _goals_, her _aspirations_. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I had already learnt long ago that ends rarely justify means. If they did, my mother would not have died from some unknown pox in Mideel – no, I never would have left to walk the road that led me to Nibleheim in the first place. But, she was too young to hear any of that and when I finally did try to persuade her, much too late, she'd grown too old to listen."

"It wasn't your fault," I say, the words swallowed by the space between us. I know that they don't actually mean anything but I can't stay silent; not in front of you, face pale one inch outside the starlight as you look at things I can't see. Your eyes flick up and you study my face a moment before looking down and away again, your voice long in returning.

"… Perhaps not but it doesn't change the consequences of my inaction. Hojo was half mad by the end of the Project – brilliant, but mad – and his wife's death was the last of it. My death was easy enough to conceal and, in any case, Shinra had many Turks. If there was an inquiry, I never heard of it."

The silence sits between us and I can't quite support it. I stare down at my hands, waiting for you to finish what I know you need to say.

"… Inaction was my only sin in Nibleheim but it was terrible enough to cost me my life. After Hojo died, I had no other place to return to besides the deck of the Highwind."

The words sit in the air and something twists inside of me… I know what it is this time though. All the mixed up times between us – the past, the present, everything in between – the then and now – my times and yours – everything that ends and begins here… I finally understand it now.

My smile is soft when I look out at nothing.

"… Cloud was surprised to see you." I say and I feel you nod. There's an infinitely slow moment between my words and the moment you look up at me.

"… Perhaps… but it was not so foreign to me then, the desire to protect."

I hear a shuddering breath and I know that it's mine. I turn to look at you, the white light falling all around me. I feel something wet drop against the back of my hand but I smile through it.

"… I was happy when you came back."

You smile enough for me to see it. With an old, shuddering grace you push yourself up out of your chair and cross the distance between us. You stand a moment above me until sitting down beside me, your legs touching the ground. You twist a little to face me, the moonlight falling across you as well. The side of your hand touches the wet line against my cheek and your smile is soft.

"It was where I belonged," you say finally and it's too much for me. I laugh once and then your lips catch mine. Your fingers dig up into my hair and I have to shift to catch all of you. I can feel your smile tugging a bit against mine – my _gods_ to feel the choices we make - and I just can't help but laugh. All I can hear over and over again like the beat of my heart is your quiet confession, drenched in this pale light of stars.

_It was where I belonged_.

… _This is where I belong_.

* * *


	10. Contact pt 10

**Author's notes**: Because I started with a song, I'll end with one as well. This is 'Love is a place' by Metric. Thank you for all of your kind reviews, everyone. Multi-chaptered stories and I don't always get along. I'm glad that you all seemed to have enjoyed this one.

My final note on this story: I enjoy colours and feel like they tell stories in and of themselves. No matter what new canon may tell me, I swear that Vincent Valentine was a blue-eyed man.

And now for one last bit. Thanks again

-T. pirate

* * *

Contact: Epilogue

_There's spring in the air  
__They're sweeping the streets_

Vincent sighed when he woke up with no one beside him. He squinted slightly at the sun coming in from the window. These three am feedings were starting to turn into six am feedings… it almost wasn't worth going back to sleep. Pulling himself up, he ran a hand through his hair, eyeing the room. The door was open and he smiled, deciding to go look for his wife.

_Wind is a breeze  
__The sun becomes her he agrees_

On bare feet, he padded down the hallway, pausing at the entrance of the kitchen. Tifa was sitting in a chair by the table, watching the sunrise through the glass doors that led to their small backyard. Vincent smiled slightly and she turned to look at him, her long brown her falling carelessly over her back and caressing the white robe that was showing just a bit of her shoulder. Gods, he was a lucky man.

_What's holding up her face?  
__Nothing but blue skies_

Vincent walked forward and rested his good hand on Tifa's shoulder. She smiled at him.

"Good morning," she said, smiling.

"Good morning," he replied, looking down at the bundle in his wife's arms.

"How is she?" he asked, touching their daughter's head lightly. The girl shifted in her sleep.

"Sleeping, the little brat," Tifa said teasingly. "Did I wake you?"

Vincent shook his head. Tifa hadn't woken him… the feeling of the empty space beside him had. Inevitably, despite whoever woke up first, they always ended up staying up together for their daughter. Vincent looked down at Tifa. She still looked a little bit pale from the hospital but…

Happy.

_Passageways to windows  
__That don't close_

Vincent pulled a chair out from the other side of the table and had a seat down beside his wife. She smiled at him tiredly.

"Do you want to hold her?" she asked. He nodded. He was still trying to master this… the claw he tucked under her body, his good hand supporting her head. His daughter yawned and shifted. A small smile poked at his lips.

Tifa stood slowly and ruffled his hair lightly.

"I'm going to make some tea, would you like some?"

Vincent nodded at her and she squeezed his shoulder before walking over to the counter. She put the kettle on – an electric one that wouldn't wake up their child – and pulled out two mugs.

"It looks like it's going to be a nice day outside today."

Vincent looked out the window and nodded. It was May… the tree across the yard was blooming. Maybe they'd finally get apples this year.

The soft burble of the kettle distracted him from his reverie. He looked over at Tifa who brought a mug over to him. The soft scent of jasmine tea filled the room.

"Would you like to sit outside?" she asked. Vincent smiled slightly and stood, picking up an extra blanket that was sitting on the table and wrapping their daughter in it.

_Where do you live?  
__Love is a place_

The porch was old, the wood well-worn. Vincent reflected that he should probably put another coat of paint on it this year. Tifa and he sat on the steps, as per their tradition, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. The sun had almost completely risen now. The sky was going to be quite blue today.

There was a distinct sound of meowing at the kitchen door. Tifa chuckled and stood slowly.

"Big suck," she teased Dart from the door. She let him out dutifully before moving back to her husband. Dart trailed at her feet and stole her lap the moment she sat down. Vincent looked over at the cat and grinned.

"Street rat," he accused. Dart started up a rough tattoo the moment Tifa started to run her hand across his back. He'd grown up to be a fairly decently sized cat. Still as rambunctious as ever though.

Tifa leaned her head against Vincent's shoulder again. She sighed quietly.

_Where are you from?  
__She says, ask yourself ask anyone_

Their daughter shifted in Vincent's arms and he looked down at her, his long black hair falling in front of his face. Tifa looked over at them. Whenever she chose to open them, their daughter showed off her incredible blue eyes. She got them from her father.

_What's holding up her face?  
__Nothing but blue skies_

Tifa looked up at the sky above them. It really would be quite blue today. When their daughter got older, maybe they'd take her on picnics in the nearby hills. Dart would probably make a fuss about being left behind though. Tifa leaned back in against Vincent, her eyes shutting.

"I love you, you know," she said on impulse. She felt her husband smile.

"I had that general idea," he replied. Tifa grinned.

"Do you love me back?"

_Passageways the mind's eye  
__Contemplates_

Vincent shifted where he was sitting and brushed his lips against the top of Tifa's head.

"More than anything," he said simply. Tifa smiled.

"Good thing I married you then," she replied, teasing. Vincent chuckled softly and looked down at the bundle in his arms. His daughter was sleeping soundly.

"Would you like to go back in now?" he asked Tifa. Tifa shook her head against his shoulder, placing her free hand on his knee.

"In a few more minutes, Vincent," she said quietly, resting. He nodded and looked up at the sky again. The sun was fully up now, colouring the entire horizon. He smiled very, very slightly.

"Alright then, a few more minutes."

They had time.

* * *


End file.
